


Rest Easy

by f3tid



Series: One Word Starts a Story [2]
Category: Fruits Basket, Fruits Basket (Anime 2019), Fruits Basket - Takaya Natsuki (Manga)
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Horror, Canon Compliant, Canon Het Relationship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Daydreaming, Domestic Fluff, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gentle Kissing, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Living Together, Morning Sex, Nightmares, Post-Canon, Romance, Suggestive Themes, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:34:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26946025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/f3tid/pseuds/f3tid
Summary: He doesn't hear the pad of bare feet on wood floors. He doesn't hear her say his name the first time, in her sweet, soothing voice that he'd follow anywhere. But he feels her hands as they smooth over his shoulders."Kyo." Her voice pours over him like the waters of a warm shower. "What're you doing in here? It's late."
Relationships: Honda Tohru/Sohma Kyou
Series: One Word Starts a Story [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1966282
Comments: 26
Kudos: 115





	1. This Vessel

There's a moment just before everything is ruined where his stomach feels hollow and his skin cools under beads of sweat that didn't used to be there. The earth falls away from his feet and the sky swallows itself. It's not quite black -- there's depth to that darkness -- it's absence. It's the absence of solid ground, the lack of a heaven above, the lack of a core, the lack of warmth under his skin. This liminal feeling, this falling through space, lasts for only a second.

This feeling, he thinks, might be the worst part.

But then his skin starts to tear. His muscles surge, burn, and contort. His bones rend and reshape. His body, his temple, becomes unrecognizable in this vile transmutation. His eyes are wet as his pupils stretch thin. He calls out for her, but his voice is gone -- warped by the sizzle of his flesh as it splits itself open, revealing the monster below. 

_ Tohru _ , he thinks. _ Where is she? I can't find her. I need her. I need her. _

He wrenches this body through space, searching for her. He yearns for her embrace, for her small voice that breaks through the static and ties him to this world. Part of him splinters, imagining the heartbreak in her eyes as she sees this part of him again.

It was supposed to be over.

He ambles blind across earth, rock, and water. Her name wracks the forest and scatters flocks of birds into the air. He needs her. He wants her. He wants to go home.

He's trapped in this vessel. The earth rips out in chunks beneath his feet. He splinters trees in the palms of his hands as he struggles against the dimensions of this foul shape. He runs like he always does. If he stands still too long, the stench festers. He'll make himself sick.

He catches a glimpse of himself in a murky pool in the dirt. He can't find a trace of himself anywhere in this face. He can't even cling to the pieces of him that he hates, that he wishes he could carve out and crush. He drags his claws across his flesh, but it doesn't tear. It never does. He can't slip away and disclaim what he's become as he confronts his reflection. He can't feel his tears as they glide down the hide of this form he's in.

The slits of his pupils expand. The water explodes in every direction as he storms through it.

The beads. Where are they? He needs them. He has to have them. They have to be somewhere. Even just to hold them, just let them touch his skin, and this horrible body will disappear. 

He thrashes at the ground in pursuit. He knows they're nowhere. They can't be.

He sees each grim little pearl spill across the concrete, all red and white. He sees the string caught between his fingers, the same string that tethered him to his human shape for his entire life. He remembers his shock and his rage at how ordinary it looked, then, naked of its power. It could have been anything. It could have tied a parcel or gotten tangled in her hair. It could have been another piece of debris in the street. It was so small.

He thought it was over. It was supposed to be over.

But now here he is, knee-deep in the mud. His skin a thick shell, his eyes burning, his body stinking of death. 

It was supposed to be over. 

He was supposed to be free. He was supposed to be the kind of being she could love and hold onto.

It was supposed to be over.

And now she's not anywhere.

He raises his face to the sky. He feels the sun warm the surface of this flesh. His chest rises and falls with each thin, stunted breath. His talons dig into the sides of his head and drag down.

He screams.

He springs up from the mattress, white sheets floating like fog around him before settling in his lap. His fingers leave crescent moons in the sides of his head. He pulls his hands into his lap and flips them front to back, over and over again. He scours his hands, searching for the creases of his knuckles, the pull of human skin against bone. He looks to his wrists and runs his fingers over them.

Sweat weeps down his brow. He looks to the bedside table. He snaps the sheets up and leaps out of bed. He races down the stout hall and throws open the bathroom door. He punches the light on and holds onto the countertop like a piece of floating garbage after a shipwreck.

He fights for his breath, watching himself come apart in the mirror. His eyes brim with tears. His skin is cold and slick with sweat. The periphery of his vision blackens. The world feels too tight. He can't breathe, here. Can't move.

He panics.

He yanks at his shirt collar and rips it from his body. He pulls open all the drawers and cabinets. He can't see much further than the hand in front of his face, but still, he's searching.

He doesn't hear the pad of bare feet on wood floors. He doesn't hear her say his name the first time, in her sweet, soothing voice that he'd follow anywhere. But he feels her hands as they smooth over his shoulders.

"Kyo." Her voice pours over him like the waters of a warm shower. "What're you doing in here? It's late."

He hangs his head. His body quakes. He stifles a sob behind grit teeth. His hair falls over his face, shielding him from scrutiny under lamplight.

She's swallowed the sea and it rises in her chest. She falls to her knees and wraps him in her arms. Her head rests at the crest of his shoulder blade.

"Oh, Kyo." She says in a wobbly voice. She rubs shapes into his skin. "You had a bad dream?"

He nods. He sputters as tears streak down his face. He closes a hand over his mouth and cries into it. He sucks in a breath through his fingers. He can't seem to steady his breath or still his racing heart.

But she's there to hold him.

She stares at the bare bathroom wall and feels his body shake beneath her cheek. She lays her palm across his heart, thumping like a bird behind a closed window. She kisses his back.

"Were you looking for something?"

He nods again, sniffing hard behind his clasped hand.

Her eyelashes dust his shoulder blade as she rests her forehead at his back.

"Your beads are in the living room," her voice echoes through him, from his back right into the flat of her hand. "We can go check on them, if you want."

They stand together, bathed in darkness. She rubs his back and strains to watch him as he dips his hand into the porcelain bowl of beads that sits on a high shelf. Photos of themselves, of Kyoko and Katsuya, of Kazuma, of Yuki and Saki and Arisa stand sentinel as he takes the beads in the palm of his hand and holds them under the moonlight.

His throat quavers. He snatches a breath from the cool night air. The beads chill his skin.

"See?" She says. "They're right here. They're always just right here."

The beads clink together as he rolls his thumb over them. In the silence of the room, the sound of it hits like an orchestra tuning instruments as the sound of the crowd begins to die and the concert is ready to begin.

In the darkness, they look gray. They're small. Cold. Unbound to power and unbound to him.

He heaves a sigh and lets them drip back into the bowl, one by one, until his hand is empty. He turns his hands over in the shaft of light spilling in through the gap in the curtains. They don't shake quite as badly.

She brushes her fingers up and down the curve of his shoulder. She reaches into the light for his hand, and pauses.

He searches for her eyes in the dark.

"Do you wanna stay up a little while? We can talk about it if you want to."

His brow tightens. He clears his throat and shakes his head. His voice is a raspy impression of itself when he finally speaks. 

"Can we go back to bed? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"Please don't be sorry. It's important to me that you feel okay."

She takes him by the hand and guides him through their little apartment. They slip back through an open door into their bedroom. A rectangle of light lays across the foot of the bed where the sheets and blankets are piled. Tea tree oil seeps into the air through persistent puffs of vapor through the humidifier she keeps by the bedside.

They pass the pieces of the life they've built together: potted plants she brought home that he tends on days she forgets. A stack of black gi sit on top of the dresser, where she left them pressed and folded. A photo of them catches the light on his nightstand.

He falls into bed at her side and the smell of fresh laundry dances in the air. 

Her head meets the pillow and her eyes find his in the dark.

He narrows his eyes as he brushes the hair from her face. "What do we do if it comes back?"

Her brow tenses. Her amiable smile falls away. "You mean the curse?"

He nods. "I couldn't ask you to stay with me if I--"

Warmth radiates from the palm of her hand as she strokes his cheek. She scoots across the bed and tucks her chest to his.

"Please stop." She says, voice small but firm. "I  _ only _ want you. We fell in love while the curse was still around, so if it ever came back, we'd keep living like we have been. We'll stay together."

Sorrow swells in his amber eyes. He holds her close and buries his fingers in her hair. He folds his arm beneath his head. His chest rises as he breathes in the smell of her.

"But what if I--" he clears his throat and tries to smother the wave of anxiety that fills his chest. "What if I turn into that  _ thing _ again?"

"I'll stay right by your side no matter what."

He pulls back to meet her gaze, face contorted by fear.

"I can't hurt you again." He holds her like treasure in his hands. "I can't fuckin' do it."

She leans into his touch. "You won't."

He shakes his head. "I don't wanna be that thing again. I-I can't do it."

He feels her nod. She pulls him nearer and rests her forehead to his. His eyelashes graze her cheeks as he fights away sleep. She slides her fingers across his chest and feels his heart drum beneath her hand.

"You're safe here." She quietly says. "Your body is yours, and nobody else's."

She gives a little smile that creases the corners of her eyes. "Except me, I mean."

He chuckles. He's surprised by the relief that consumes him as he watches her, happy and tranquil in their bed, bathed in moonlight.

She rubs his chest. "I'll always keep you safe."

She closes the distance between them with a kiss. His heart finds a steady cadence. Blood pumps under his skin. His cheeks warm. His fingers glide through her hair and his arms pull her close. His legs tangle with hers beneath the blankets.

He feels her touch across the surface of his skin. His muscles relax. He recognizes the sound of his voice as he tells her he loves her. His lips meet hers again and again, until he's pressing his grin to hers.

She strokes at his hair and kisses his brow. His eyes close as he soaks in her attention. He welcomes sleep with arms wrapped around her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot I wanted to write about for Kyoru Week 2020's Dream prompt, so here is the first part. I've long entertained the idea of writing Tohru comforting Kyo after a nightmare, and I'm so happy that this prompt gave me the impetus to do just that.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and please stay tuned for more.


	2. Wander

She wears a heavy coat against the cold. She stands with gloved hands jammed into her pockets. Wet air blows in off the sea and roses bloom across her cheeks. 

Head tilted toward the sky, she knows somewhere behind the clouds, the sun is shining. Someday soon, the frost will melt, the grass will stretch up towards the sky, and Spring will return. The air will be sweet with blossoming flowers. The roads will be blanketed in their petals and the rain will wash them away.

He’ll sprawl across the couch and fall asleep in a patch of sun. She’ll watch him under a veil of eyelashes, warm in the light. She’ll run her fingers through his autumn colored hair and discover something new about him as he rests. Something so sacred it leaves her speechless. Like his voice that lingers at the end of each breath, or the way his fingers curl in toward his palms like the vines of a sugar snap pea. Her eyes will wander the valleys and peaks of his body, immaculate and inviting beneath his clothes.

But it’s cold out, today. 

She wishes she'd worn a thicker skirt, one that covered her knees, like he’d suggested before she left for work. Her fingertips ache. She shakes them out, willing the blood to rush in from low tide.

Tohru rounds the yard again, watching as the children play. They hoist themselves up on platforms and bellow through cupped hands down to earth. Little hands grasp at rope ladders. Little boots thump against wood, rubber, and dirt as they chase one another up and down complex routes of their own creation.

Fog comes in tufts, a little warmth lost with every exhale. Her hands smear together. They feel like white noise. She hastens her pace, hoping to somehow outrun the chill that creeps up her spine.

A bell rings across the yard and spills out into the street. The teacher stands in front of the open classroom door. She cups her hands around her mouth and calls the children to her. Tohru skirts the yard’s perimeter, peering behind tree trunks and under the play structure for those stretching time. She gathers them up with words of longing for lunch and an open hand. She stands at the back of the line as they shuffle inside, shedding their coats and unravelling scarves. She looks to the sky one last time.

A sliver of sunshine slices through the clouds and warms her face. She lets the door fall closed behind her.

The lights are turned low inside the classroom, but winter spills in through the cracks in the blinds. It casts its light impressions on the walls. Opaque shadows of near-naked trees shiver in rectangles strewn across the floor. They creep up the walls in the almost dark. The soft plunking of piano keys fills the air as the children sleep.

She stares, unseeing, across the room as she rubs circles into a child’s back. Images of Kyo play behind her eyes.

Every morning is welcomed with a kiss. Sometimes so soft, it doesn’t wake her. Sometimes fervent, sometimes needful. Often slow, he moves his lips over hers with intention and focus. He kisses her as though he’ll seal the shape of them into his forever, and relive the feeling of them every time he licks his lips.

On the days his kiss does rouse her from sleep, his eyes are the first things she sees. His eyes come alive as he pulls away, softening at the sight of her. She warms in the glow of his attention. He, with his honey colored eyes, ushers her from sleep and into the plushness of their bed, the comfort of his arms. It’s harder for the both of them to leave, this way.

She’ll loop her arms around his neck and pull him into another kiss. He’ll cradle the sides of her face in his hands and eclipse her with his broad shoulders. Sometimes he relents and tumbles back into bed. They’ll turn together until entangled. Sometimes she holds him, speckling his neck with her lips. On cold days, they stay that way until the sun chases the last vestiges of the dark past the horizon. Until he checks his phone and curses. Until he smooths his hand across her head and blesses her face with one, two, four, ten more kisses, then hops out the door, shrugging on a jacket and tugging on shoes and professing his love and his “I’ll see you later”s.

The memory of his touch raises goosebumps on her skin. A look from her colleague tells her she’s grinning. She brings her hand to her cheek. Warm. Her smile grows in the palm of her hand.

Clouds dye dark blue as the sun disappears. The windows are locked. She wipes down tables under yellow light. There's bleach in the air and the tapping of shoes in the hallway. She glances out towards the yard, then back at the clock. She's nearly done.

Winter days melt away like well-loved candles. The wick burns short and weak, and disappears in curls of smoke. He'll be by any minute. His hair will cling to his face and he'll smell like bar soap and linens. His hands will be warm as he holds his fingers to her lips, sharing his warmth with her the way he always does.

He'll pull her coat over her shoulders. He'll wrap her scarf around her neck and stand back with a grin, waiting for the bap of the pom-poms against his chest. He'll get that love drunk look in his eyes, where he can't open them all the way or tear them from her for even a moment. He'll gather her bag. He'll thumb her hair back behind her ear. He'll burrow into his pocket, holding her hand there the whole way back home.

They'll cut through the park and talk about dinner. If the playground is dry, he'll race her to the swing set. They'll sit down together and pump their legs towards the moon, poking fun at one another and sharing until the street lights buzz in the darkness. They'll walk the rest of the way home and shut the cold out behind their front door.

He'll ease off her clothes, kissing her wrists and her neck and her nose and her lips until she stands in her socks and her dress. They'll chop, pour, and stir in the kitchen until the smell of dinner fills the air. He'll play something understated and soothing with a beat she can move to. He'll come up behind her and watch the pot boil as he speaks low in her ear. His body will press her into the counter and she'll press right back. They'll dance around the thickness in the air until his hand slides over her hip and then --

"Tohru?"

She snaps her head to the doorframe, where one of the teachers leans in.

"Your husband's here. He's waiting out front."

She bows from her waist and gathers her things in her arms. Her shoes squeak against the floor tiles. She runs for the door where he rests, arm pressed to the cold metal frame. He falls back a step as she leaps into his arms.

His fingers graze the strands of her hair like the strings of a harp. His hair clings to his face. He smells like bar soap and fresh linens. He takes her hands in his and brings them to his lips, planting kisses in the creases of her knuckles. 

"Hey," He gazes at her, happy. "Ready to go home?"

She nods. "Yes!"

He tugs her coat over her shoulders. Her scarf's pom-pom makes contact. His eyes crinkle at the corners as his smile grows.

"What'd you get up to today?" 

He shrugs her bag onto his shoulder. He tucks her hair behind her ear, fingers ghosting over her cheek. He interlaces his hand in hers and stuffs them in his pocket.

"Not all that much, really." She beams and nestles into the fold of her scarf, following his lead across the park. "Mostly daydreaming about you."

His cheeks warm and he squeezes her hand. He turns his head towards the playground in the distance, then looks back with a glint in his eyes.

"I'll race you."

And they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I wrote this chapter on the same night I wrote my wedding vows.
> 
> I've always felt such a kinship with Tohru and her deeply sentimental way of thinking and getting swept up in a thought. I thought there was no way to satisfy the dream prompt without including Tohru's daydreams about the man she loves most.
> 
> Please be warned, the rating will definitely go up for chapter 3. Smutty times await.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	3. Daybreak

Their bedroom is bathed in the gold orange light of late afternoon. Sunlight splinters through the gaps in the blinds. The blankets fall over the edge of the bed and pool on the floor. Music filters in through an open door.

He lays between her legs, fingers spread across her belly. The tip of his nose meets the inside of her thigh. His breath warms her skin. He nestles into that spot he adores, the valley where her thigh curves into her center. He sews sweet kisses while he rubs lazy circles with his fingers. Obscured by her, he hums. His brows set with purpose. 

He kisses the swell of her pelvis, eyes watching her expression as he traces the shape of her with his fingertips.

She meets his gaze from the bend in her elbow, an arm laid over her face.

His eyes are crimson coals at the foot of the fire. Orange, red, then orange again, the colors surge like a heartbeat. Her reflection sears in the black ring of his pupils. 

There, she peeks up at herself. Face flushed. Wanting.

His eyes smolder. Her reflection sinks into his pupils.

She feels silly, stealing glimpses at her husband from under a bent arm. 

Golden skin with tousled hair the color of autumn. Thick brows. The narrow of his nose traces an artful line down his face. His jaw is strong and his lips inviting. He's beautiful.

Shadows play beneath his tense eyebrows. They surface and fade as he clenches and releases the tension in his jaw. He looks like he'll eat her alive.

She feels his breath against her underwear.

Shallow shadows arise as he pushes her legs open with his hands. He scrapes his way between her panties and her skin. Her knees knock behind his head and his lips graze dangerously close. He drags her underwear up her thighs. His hands slide in beneath her hips. His muscles tense against his forearms. He pulls her to his lips.

She sees him make contact. He kisses the crest of her sex. He spares her one last look as he sinks between her thighs. His hair bristles against her skin, cheek flush to the inside of her thigh. She pushes at the air with socked feet. They spread open at the foot of the bed and pull her underwear taut between her knees. Daylight dapples pink cotton. He licks her till he hears his name.

"K-Kyo." She says. Her eyes shut.

His thumb lingers between the round of her cheek and the lip of her cunt. He flits his eyes to meet hers. He wears her tangled legs like a crown.

"You like that?" His voice runs through her.

He furrows his brow. "Move your arm."

She hesitates.

He smooths his thumb across her. "Move your arm. I wanna see you."

She wakes with the covers knotted between her legs. Her hand curls against her belly, Kyo's shirt bunched up around her waist. She peers down her nose. Legs tangled in the bedclothes, half in, half out. The bed sighs as she turns over in search of him.

The air is fuzzy, electric. Her face is warm and her head swims as the light of early morning paints everything pale blue. She squirms. Her panties cling to her. Sticky.

He seeks her out in slumber, too. His arm drapes across her and he tucks his hand into the warm curve of her waist. She watches the sun rise across his skin. Orange and cinnamon colors come alive as morning spills across his eyelashes. A slim stretch of skin gleams in the light across his bare shoulder, a scar that's since healed. His chest harbors peace in the steady flow of his breath. She scrapes the back of her knuckles down the firm muscle there. Plush squares of duvet hide him from the navel down.

She turns her back to him. 

He tows her in. His hand unfurls beneath her breast. Fingers spread across her ribs. She glows as his thumb draws across her chest.

He breathes.

She feels the swell of his chest at her back as he holds her close.

He tucks his hips into her. He's stiff beneath his shorts. He rubs against her. A facet of the early morning, like the stirrings of birds in the trees and the sun lighting the few that glitters on an open field. He shares his warmth as he traps her leg beneath his thigh. His length presses in at her low back.

She's still a while. Her lip is caught between her teeth. She stares at her dresser drawers, the way the wood warps in long circles, the way his cock pushes against her with each breath. The air's thick and warm, enough to steam the windowpanes and obscure the winter waiting just outside. It smells like old tea leaves and cinnamon sticks. The heater clangs its idle conversation through the walls of the apartment.

She wriggles her hips. She holds her breath as his body responds. His palm closes over her breast. His fingertips, always warm, tease at the collar of her -- his -- shirt.

He rocks softly into her. A sleepy sigh spills past her ear. His grasp is firm. His breath quiets near to nothing, then returns. It's cool against her neck. It's lost its easy, slumbering cadence. He's awake.

She moves to look at him, but he stops her with a kiss beneath her ear. His voice is gravelly from sleep. It moves her with its depth.

"Mm, morning." He says into her skin as he brings his lips to her neck. He presses kiss after kiss, following the trail laid by the pull of her skin against her jugular. He grazes her throat with the tip of his nose.

She shivers. "G-good morning."

His hand squeezes. He nips where her neck meets her shoulder. The bed groans as he settles in behind her. He rolls his hips.

She gasps.

His hand molds to the shape of her belly as he delves beneath her shirt. His palm rests at her low belly. His fingers flick against elastic and lace trim. He circles the bow at the front of her underwear with his thumb just once, then pushes his hand between her legs.

Her thighs close. He kneads her softly, the pad of his middle finger tracing the shape of her. His skin is rough, fingertips calloused from training. He moves his fingers against her to a steady rhythm, though she can feel his breath hitch and release against her skin.

He teases at her entrance, fingers gentle. She sighs. Her eyelashes dust her cheeks as she closes her eyes. He sinks his fingers in. She raises her hips to meet the palm of his hand.

His fingers are thick. He pushes in slowly, tracing her with his fingertips from within. His wrist tenses at her belly and his fingers curl. She tilts into his hand. Her mouth tears open and a long moan fills the room.

His lips are at her jaw, nipping gently where light and shadow meet. He kisses her there, then near her ear. He gingerly takes the lobe between his teeth. His breath is heavy and he rocks steadily against her from behind.

A flock of birds takes flight in the pit of her stomach and erupt in a fit of strangled cries from her lips. 

He pumps into her hard. He releases her earlobe with a peck.

"Be loud," is his gentle command.

He withdraws, eyes trained on her face. He watches the way her skin creases between her eyebrows, the rich color of her cheeks. He smooths her hair across her forehead and plunges back inside her.

The sinew in her neck strains against the skin. She thrusts her hips as he holds her with the palm of his hand. He paints her flesh with the pad of his thumb. His fingers push and stroke at her. Impossibly warm. Smooth, soft, wet. She feels his throat bob behind her shoulder as he swallows something otherwise inexpressible.

She cries.

Heat creeps up his wrist and warms his face. He smears his cheek against her and closes his eyes. Tendons in his wrist stand against his skin. He braces himself against the mattress and drives his fingers in.

She throws her head back. Her voice fills the air. She grabs blindly at his hip and claws his boxers in her fingers. Her hips match his rhythm, his breath nearly as heavy as hers in her ear. It’s a blink that lingers, and she’s lost to him. In the blackness in the back of her eyelids, she feels the thickness of his fingers, the pressure that he builds within her. 

Something like an arrow whistling through the air and weaving through branches leaves her stomach feeling hollow. The world shrinks to the size of the two of them for a moment, and she forgets how to breath. The arrow strikes. Her body seizes. The world explodes back into existence all at once.

She screams.

Her toes curl and her spine straightens. She pushes her hips up and up into the palm of his hand as his fingers slow, stifled by the way her body holds him. Her every muscle coils and releases to a throbbing, dizzying percussion. Each drumbeat grows softer, more soothing than the last. She collapses back against him, gasping for air.

He kisses her temple and slips his hand back over her hip. He rolls her underwear down her thighs, leaving her skin wet where his fingers roam. The bed croaks and his warmth leaves the back of her neck cool in the morning air. He rises to his knees.

He hugs her thigh to his chest and looks down into her eyes. A moment, brief as breath, passes as their eyes lock. He holds her tight in his hands, one at her thigh, the other beneath the folds of her shirt. She wrinkles the sheets in a fist and drags her fingers down his hip. She holds fast. He buries himself inside her. 

She watches his eyes roll back and fall closed. He bites his lip. Draws back. Then pushes back in.

He holds out for the telltale sound of her choking on her voice. For frantic fingers seeking him out and pulling him close. He searches those glittering brown eyes as they well with wild tears, as her cheeks pink and her eyebrows tense. Her mouth falls open and she heaves a dozen breaths.

Her muscles clinch him tight. He wrinkles his nose and furrows his brow. His breath pours over her. He struggles to keep his eyes open. His voice is thick and desperate. He looks as though he's been hit.

He bucks, he bucks, and his hips don't still. He feels himself explode inside her as the pressure in his head clears and rapture takes its place. He's warm in the chest -- warm everywhere, really. The tension he holds eases in shallow spurts. His fingers soften against her skin. His shoulders drop. His expression relaxes and he looses a happy half-chuckle. He releases her leg and unwinds on top of her. 

His hand is at her cheek. He brushes his nose against hers and kisses the lips that sang his name so beautifully. She wraps him in her arms. Small hands stroke his back between the shoulder blades.

Sun spills in weakly through the half-hooded window, splitting through the cool blue of a winter morning with its warmth. Birds throw their melodies back and forth from bare branches outside. A truck rolls by on the street below. The world wakes up beyond their window.

Daylight colors him exquisitely. A fraction of sun gleams in the corner of his eye, revealing a caramelly gold in the midst of striking red. His hair blazes where the sun falls upon it. A patch of sun settles on his cheek as he smiles down at her.

"Thank you," she breathlessly says.

He smirks against her lips. "Thank  _ you _ ."

She wrinkles her nose and his heart swells for her. "I really wanted that."

He pecks the tip of her nose, then lobs himself onto his side. He props his head up on his hand. He runs his hand across her chest. He glances up at her from under his eyelashes.

"Yeah? Thinkin' dirty thoughts about me this morning?" He bares his teeth with a grin.

She chuckles. "I was, actually. I had a dream about you."

He quirks a brow and affects a scandalized tone of voice. " _ Tohru _ ."

Her laughter honeys the air and draws him in. He captures her lips and plants kisses down her throat. He buries his nose in her neck and melts his hand along the curve of her waist.

"Do that more often," he mumbles as he brings his lips to her collar bone.

She closes her eyes and melts into his touch. His hands are warm -- always so warm -- as he sweeps them over her stomach. He comes to rest his hand at her hip. He watches her through gentle, tired eyes. She flutters hers open to look at him, bathed gold in daylight.

She grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took way longer than I'd have liked, but I'm really happy with the end product! I've seen a few pieces floating around about sex dreams with these two, but most of them tend to be about Kyo as the dreamer. Here I explored what Tohru might dream of in that way, and the way Kyo'd react to it. Basically, it's all smut. I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> For those curious, Rest Easy is set in Kyo and Tohru's 20's after they're married and living in a small apartment in their new town. It's safe to assume all the events of Rest Easy occur in this context.
> 
> Thanks, as ever, for reading. There's more to come!


	4. Peace

This isn't like most nights.

Most nights sleep overtakes him like a wave. The void spills over his shoulders, dampens his hair, and he's gone until daybreak.

On occasion the void gives way to horror. They're familiar little treacheries of his mind and body, he knows, but he isn't immune to goosebumps and cold sweats and screaming. Not yet.

Tonight, though, is different. Calm.

The blackness of sleep weaves itself into roots and a thick braided trunk. It stretches its branches towards the sun, forking, obscuring pale blue skies that disappear into fog and white foothills. Its leaves bud, grow, and die in the boughs. It undulates green, yellow, orange, brown, and then nothing.

Leaves dance to the earth for forever.

They crunch under his feet as he broaches the shade. He runs his hand along the treebark. It's rough and crumbles from the friction. He rubs it between his fingers and watches as it returns to the earth.

He drags his hand along the tree trunk and walks a half circle around it. The downpour of leaves stops for the moment. He tips his head toward the sky and watches, transfixed, as new buds begin to form overhead.

He glances back down. Curled, dead leaves blanket the ground at his feet. A sound, simple and serene, demands his attention.

It's her voice, he knows it is. He skirts the tree trunk, straining to hear her. He comes away with only the cadence. Her singsong way of translating thoughts to words and shaping his world.

He loops back around the tree trunk, his palm still flat against its surface. It seems bigger, somehow, than it had been. He wrinkles his brow.

And suddenly someone. Her voice is still with him, even louder now that it was before. He narrows his eyes at the figure before him -- a small sort of somebody resting at the base of the tree. Shadow obscures them, but the sound of their gentle sleeping rises with each breath.

He steals a step forward. Reaches with an open hand. Flower petals rain from fresh blossoms above.

He wakes. It's sudden, but calm. The mattress is plush at his back. Early morning slides in between the gaps in the blinds. Its light spills into the hall and gleams against their wedding photo. He props himself on his elbows and surveys the room.

Their clothes are in a scattered pile on the floor, removed urgently late last night. The faint smell of pomegranate lingers in the air from a candle she'd lit and let burn until just before bed. The soft hum of the humidifier and the clink-clanking of the heater stave off the silence.

He finds her nestled at his side. Her hand rests on his belly, the other tucked in close to her chest. Her hair spills down over her face like water and pools on the pillows just the same.

He pulls the duvet up over her shoulder and leans down to stroke the hair from her face. He watches her rest. Peaceful.

Her fingers flex against his skin and her voice stirs somewhere in her chest. She blinks herself awake, her body reluctant.

"Oh, is it already morning?" Sleep pulls at her smile.

He presses his lips to hers and softly speaks. "Mmhm. You can go back to sleep if you want."

She pushes her hand up over his chest. "Maybe. Are you okay?"

He smiles. "Yeah, I'm good."

She rests her cheek upon his chest and closes her eyes. His fingers thread through her hair, raising strands to the air and watching them fall from his knuckles. He eases back against the pillows. She finds sleep in the steady drum of his heart.

It's many more nights where his eyes close and night becomes day. She lays beside him, soothing him with the sound of her breathing and the light touch of her hand on his chest. He greets new days with the feel of her kiss and whispered "I love you"'s.

But it happens again.

This time the syrupy smell of springtime overwhelms him. The sun warms his face and she's laying beside him. The feeling of her arms around him is like identifying his own face in a photo -- immediate, innate. He need not think about it, he knows.

He feels her breath on his neck.

He turns to look at her, sprawled on the grass beside him. Her hair's loose. No ribbons. He glances down to her fingers curled at his collar. A saucer-shaped flower the color of her cheeks pokes out from her palm.

He admires her there as the clouds pass over them, casting their shadows and stealing the sun for moments at a time. He moves to cup her cheek. He roams from her face to the curve of her hip, the swell of her --

Sun spreads across the duvet and twinkles on the color in his eyelashes. He turns to her side of the bed, fingers curling over what would be her shoulder. He furrows his brow.

The sheets are pulled back in a lopsided pile. The fan in the bathroom whirs from down the hall.

The floor creaks beneath him as he walks across the cool wood panels. He presses his shoulder into the doorframe. He spots his own reflection in the mirror before his gaze sinks to the floor. She sits there in his tee shirt, a couple of empty, glossy boxes on the floor around her.

She looks up at him, eyes wet, face tired, but smiling. She pushes the tears from her eyes with the base of her hand. There's a plastic stick in the other.

"I, um --"

He takes to his knees and gathers her in his arms. Her body trembles in his grasp. A tear spills from her eye and trickles down his chest. He strokes the back of her hair with an open hand.

She gives a weepy sort of laugh. "I think we're going to have a baby."

He nods against her, eyes shut tight. His chest rises and rises and rises. He's a blue sky with clouds the size of mountains.

Her tears rain down his skin. He can feel her smile grow against him.

"Are you okay?" She squeaks, "Th-this is a lot for first thing in the morning."

He holds her even tighter, then remembers himself. His arms slacken and his fingers move gently over her skin and through her hair. He pulls back and studies her. Brown strands drip from his fingers and settle on her chest.

"Me? Who gives a shit how I feel, how are  _ you _ ?" He cups her face. "You've been feelin' sick o-or tired?"

Her hands melt down his shoulders. "Just tired. And really late."

He chuckles. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Are you…happy?" She asks, more vulnerable than she ought to be, he thinks. "I mean, you don't have to be. I-I'm sorry, I shouldn't have phrased it--"

He draws in close and kisses her forehead. He moves to her temple, then glides along the curve of her jaw. He curls a finger beneath her chin and tilts her face until her eyes meet his.

"I'm so fuckin' happy, you have no idea."

She bursts into tearful laughter, and he joins her. Kisses break into smiles, break into gasps for air and the meeting of eyes both searching for direction, for a conduit for the joyful, fearful, vibrant energy built between them.

A wave of fear passes over him like the long shadow of a cloud cast over a mountain. He stares into her eyes, holding her -- them, now -- in his arms. He swallows hard on the lump in his throat. He holds the thought like a bird in his hands, and releases it to the sky.

His lips arc into a grin. A warm track dribbles down his cheek. He presses a kiss against her forehead, then slips his hand along her neck and pulls her back home to him. He kisses her crown.

"I love you. A-and I'm gonna take care of you."

She feels his throat quiver. She breathes him in and dries her eyes in his chest. "I know you will. We take care of each other."

He nods, threading his fingers in her hair. His voice is small when he replies. 

"Yeah."

They watch the sun creep up the walls and splash against the mirror. Morning stretches sunbeams towards the heavens and warms the tile where they sit. It's minutes before he scoops her up and sits beside her by the living room window, watching the clouds sail overhead as the neighborhood resumes its rhythm.

He plays her favorite songs and makes breakfast for the two of them. His voice cuts through the sizzling stovetop to share what he's learning about the foods she should indulge and the ones she should avoid, about doctors and shopping and sharing and sleeping.

She's quiet for a spell, curled up beneath a blanket with a cup of chamomile. She savors the sound of his voice, watching children pass beneath their window on the long walk to school.

He calls to her, standing idle in the archway. "Everything okay?"

She nods.

He takes a seat beside her. He wields a spatula at his side and the smell of food clings to him. "How're you feelin'? Want me to back off?"

She shakes her head with a smile. "I'm excited. Scared, too." She rests her head on his shoulder. "And please don't ever back off."

He loops an arm around her and rubs circles in her shoulder. "I get it. It's exciting. Terrifying, too."

She nods her agreement. "And I have  _ no _ idea what we're going to do."

He laughs. "Shit, me neither."

He kisses her temple. "But we'll figure it out. I'll start by not burning breakfast and we'll work our way up to a baby."

She gives a shrug. A smile. Her eyes crease at the corners. "We've got time."

He smooths her hair with his hand and gives her one last peck. "Thankfully, yeah."

Sleep comes easy again for many more nights after that. There are some nights disrupted, roused by her tossing and turning, trying to find comfort in a body ever changing. He holds her softly, then, quiet in the dark with his hand spread wide over her belly. He closes his eyes and rests his head in the crook of her neck. He feels the rise and fall of her back at his chest, her breath slowing, deepening almost unto soundlessness.

She finds peace. So, then, does he.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never even once written about Hajime -- and technically, I still haven't -- but I've always wanted to. Here I've explored some prophetic kinds of dreams Kyo had in the earliest parts of Tohru's pregnancy. I've always had oddly specific and relevant dreams whenever someone in my life has gotten pregnant, so I wanted to explore a little bit of the symbolism of dreams and objects in this piece.
> 
> We're very nearly done now. The last chapter is about sweet dreams.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


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